


Asphodel and Chocolate

by christ_Just_Let_Me_Say_Fuck



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: AU, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, The (modified) Invention of the Wolfsbane Potion, The Werewolf Incident, Werewolf!Snape, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-06-23 13:09:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15606996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christ_Just_Let_Me_Say_Fuck/pseuds/christ_Just_Let_Me_Say_Fuck
Summary: What if Moony had bitten Snape the night Sirius lured him to the Whomping Willow?A "what-if" AU focusing on Remus's feelings after the Werewolf Incident and his relationship with Severus Snape.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my drafts folder for a Good Long While now. I'm not massively proud of it, but I thought touching up an old fic would help me get back into the writing groove before finishing my other ongoing fic.
> 
> Basically an AU where James Potter doesn't arrive in time to save Snape from being bitten during Sirius's werewolf prank. I've always wondered exactly how Remus felt about that, so I suppose this is also a "Remus demonstrates moral courage and understands that Snape kind of needs a hand more than Sirius does in this situation" AU.

Remus Lupin knew what had happened the minute he woke up in a hospital bed surrounded by Madam Pomfrey and the Headmaster, both staring down at him with a combination of concern, disappointment and ill-concealed fear that the young werewolf knew all too intimately.

 

From his first day at Hogwarts, a part of him had known it would happen eventually. During those first few weeks, it had seemed inevitable. Even with every accommodation made for him by the Headmaster, Remus had spent every day trembling under the weight of an awful conviction that the next transformation would be when it happened, when some unfortunate student would somehow wander too close to the Shrieking Shack, probably on some stupid dare…and then it would happen, and he would be carted off to live the rest of his life in Azkaban, if he was allowed to live at all.

 

The fear had receded somewhat since James, Sirius and Peter had befriended him, but it had never dissipated entirely. So, waking up in the hospital after that fateful full moon, Remus couldn’t honestly say he was surprised. Terrified and self-loathing, certainly, his heart clenching ice-cold in his chest as Dumbledore confirmed his worst fears, pulling every adrenaline-soaked night terror into the daylight and making it real – but hardly shocked. He was a werewolf, after all, and werewolves bite. He had been a fool to hope for anything else, he thought bitterly.

 

No, the real gut-punch came when he heard the name of his victim. Severus Snape. _Snivellus_. The unfortunate Slytherin just so happened to be passing by the Shrieking Shack, what a terrible coincidence, no idea why he should be wandering around there, how awful…

 

One glance at Dumbledore’s expression told Remus that the Headmaster didn’t believe this version of events any more that Remus himself did. Remus wished he could make himself believe it. Merlin, how he wished he could.

 

Remus left the hospital wing with his head weighed down with too many thoughts, all of them uncomfortable and yet all of them demanding his attention. Hadn’t Sirius seemed so...excited, almost manic, for the past week, animated yet evasive whenever pressed about his good mood? Hadn’t he waited with even less patience than usual for the advent of the full moon?

 

Hadn’t he said it out loud, in front of all of them one night in the Gryffindor common room, after a particularly drawn out battle with that irritatingly persistent Slytherin punching bag? “I swear if Snivelly doesn’t learn how to lie down and keep his mouth shut, Prongs, I might have to take drastic action.”

 

Remus remembered wondering just how drastic those actions could possibly be, considering their usual interactions tended to end with Snape on the receiving end of multiple hexes. The Snape boy was a quick hand when it came to curses – but so were James and Sirius, and there were two of them.

 

Remus had stopped his thoughts there, forcibly. James and Sirius might not be saints, sure, but they were his friends, and Remus need friends, desperately. And besides, James and Sirius had done so much for him. They had spent so much time studying to become Animagi along with Peter for him, just to keep him company. Remus couldn’t overlook that.

 

_But you can overlook them using you like a weapon, can you? You can laugh with them, smile at them, and know they planned to make you a murderer?_

 

Remus squeezed his eyes shut as he stormed down the corridors, as if that would quiet the awful gnawing suspicious voice, calm the trembling in his hands, assuage the guilt that roared through him. Worse than all that, though, was what he could sense beneath everything else – a seed of genuine rage.

 

Rage. He couldn’t afford to get angry, especially not with his friends. What had his mother told him, after sitting him down the day before he was to be sent to Hogwarts? _Just remember, Remus, you can never raise your hand in anger to another person. Do you hear me? Never. It doesn’t matter what you’ve gotten involved in. You never strike another person. You stay calm. You speak kindly. Remember that and friends will follow. You understand?_

 

…and now Remus was gulping back the lump that had gathered in his throat as he came to the stairway to the common room. His mother’s face burned clearly in his mind, her face tired but still gentle, expressive. Still loving. Even before he had met the Marauders, Remus had known he could be more than a monster, all because of her. Whenever a painful or restless night left him miserable and hopeless, the thought of his parents, and particularly his mother, always calmed him. _I’m Remus Lupin, son of Lyall and Hope Lupin. I’m their son, not just a monster,_ he would say to himself, repeating it like it was holy writ.

 

Now the words tasted like bile and ash in his mouth. How could he say he wasn’t a monster after what he had done? He had mauled a fellow student – and that’s all he ever was, Remus thought mournfully, not a Death Eater or a Dark wizard or a bat or a snake or a boggart – whose only crime was being hated, hated by a popular Gryffindor who just so happened to be best friends with a dangerous Dark creature. And now there was one more werewolf in the world, another boy condemned to a life of pain and isolation. Remus realized he was now only a single step above Fenrir Greyback, and the sole reason for that small mercy was that he hadn’t sought out his victim – instead, one of his best friends had brought one to him. Hardly a comforting thought.

 

Remus Lupin lost his battle against the waiting tears halfway up the stairs. Luckily, most of the students were in bed by now, so no one else was likely to come by and find the Gryffindor prefect standing stock still on the stone steps, his shoulders heaving and trembling uncontrollably.

 

Dumbledore had not punished him. He hadn’t even insisted on keeping Remus in the hospital wing to apologize to Snape, and Remus had fled without so much as a backwards glance at the boy’s bed, where a thin lump under the blankets and a streak of dark oily hair strewn across the pillow were all that could be seen of Slytherin’s fresh werewolf. Remus didn’t even know exactly where he had bitten him. Now, leaning alone against the wall and trying to conceal his watery sniffles, Remus felt the full weight of the held-back guilt settle on him, turning his legs to stone. He didn’t even have the courage to face his victim and apologize. Of course, Snape wouldn’t have accepted it –he would have thrown it right back in Remus’s face coated in spleen and spit, bristling like an angry Nundu - but it would have helped Remus feel like less of a monster – like less of a Greyback. Because he hadn’t stayed around after attacking a child in order to apologize either, had he?

 

The image was enough to send Remus into a jag of laughter, so loud and wild that he had to slap a hand over his mouth to prevent the rest of the dorm from waking up and finding him. Besides, the laugh had been more hysteria than real amusement. It seemed like Sirius was right in one respect – sometimes you had to laugh, or else you’d cry.

 

Remus let out a shuddering sigh. The once-comforting thought of his friend had turned cold and unpleasant, like curdled food, and now made him even more nauseous than he already was.

 

Turning to the portrait-entrance to the common room, Remus already knew that he wouldn’t be sleeping any tonight. Just as he was about to clamber through the passage, however, a distant sound caught his ear, killing whatever slim hopes of a good night’s sleep he still had.

 

It was low and faint, certainly, but distinctive enough to raise the hairs on his arms. A thin, plaintive wail, barely on the edge of human, wound its way through the echoing corridors, eerie and pathetic and hopeless.


	2. Chapter 2

****

Remus had been pretty sure, before he confronted them, of how his friends would react, but that didn’t stop him being faintly disappointed in them anyway.

 

“Oh come off it Remus, you know I didn’t mean for Snivellus to end up…like that. I just meant to scare the little creep a bit, you know, get him off our backs for a bit.” Sirius did look a bit frazzled, but that seemed to be the result of the look Remus was giving him, rather than any sincere regret. After all, everyone else seemed to have let him off the hook. A week’s detention was nothing to an inveterate troublemaker like Sirius Black, and everything about his attitude – the casual slouch against the arm of the plush common room couch he was currently sprawled on, the dismissive roll of his handsome dark eyes – suggested that not only was Sirius eager to forget about the consequences of his prank, he was more than ready for Remus to drop it too.

 

Sirius sighed, and shifted slightly, managing to make the small thoughtless movement look somehow graceful. “Look, Moony, I’m sorry about how it turned out for you, but you know that Snivellus can’t keep his beak out of other people’s business. I just…well, I showed him what happens when you mess with the wrong sort, eh?”

 

Sirius ended his little spiel with a vague wave of his hand and one of his signature charming grins, the sort that had won him a place in the hearts of so many. It was the same smile he had turned on Remus before, and it had generally worked on him. This time, though, Remus couldn’t bring himself to return the smile.

 

James, seated in a crimson velvet armchair and balancing an open Quidditch magazine on his lap, offered a more sympathetic viewpoint.

 

“I’m sorry, Moony, I really am. I tried to get down there and pull him out, I swear I did, but…”

 

Next to him, Peter nodded firmly. “Yeah, you practically ran down there when you figured it out, didn’t you Prongs?” Peter looked absurdly proud, as though he himself had been the one to attempt such a heroic rescue.

 

James huffed, and flipped the magazine shut. “Well, at least you’re not expelled, Moony. That’s one thing we can cheer about, even if you’ll have to spend the rest of your life knowing that you’re responsible for creating the world’s ugliest werewolf.”

 

For the second time that night, Remus found himself unable to muster up his usual responses to his friends. The sideways smile, the reservoir of in-jokes, the pranks and advice and friendly taunts simply refused to come, even as Sirius immediately roared and rolled around on his couch, convulsed with laughter, and Peter dutifully followed suit with a squeal of his own. James’s eyes twinkled in the reflected glow of the fire, and his mouth was drawn up tight in a proud smile, delighted to see his friends laughing, laughing at his wit, his quickness. Remus had always admired that about James – how genuine his desire to see his friends happy was. He should be laughing, too – he knew that James had meant to lighten the mood, to cheer him up, to get him back to his usual, jokey, not-mad-at-Padfoot self.

 

He wanted that, too. He wanted that old dynamic back, when they could say or do more or less anything around each other and know that they would be supported. That had been wonderful, more than Remus could ever have dared to hope for when he was a lonely, frightened boy, convinced that no one would ever truly want a freak like him around.

 

But he had blood on his hands now, blood barely acknowledged by anyone. He had hurt someone – his friend had used him to hurt someone, as though he were nothing more to him than a gun, or a knife. Now here he was. Here they all were, glorious, unrepentant, unpunished. Sirius had recovered somewhat from his earlier hysteria and was now performing what appeared to be a sort of pantomime version of Snape as a werewolf, hunched over and sniffing and snorting like a grotesque Niffler as he mimed shaking damp swathes of oily hair away from his face. Peter had cast himself in the role of a terrified villager, pretending to gibber and recoil from the vision of uncommon hideousness presented to him. James presided over it all, the king, his smile morphing into gales of laughter as Sirius lunged towards a squealing Peter and tried to grab at him with hooked claw-fingers.

 

Watching them, Remus realized with a sick jolt how close he had come to the edge of complete friendlessness. If he – every bit as scruffy and retiring as Snape had been – had been Sorted differently, would the Marauders now be mocking him instead, making jokes about the fact that there was a werewolf among them, dressing up like a student and daring to act like it was normal?

 

 _Don’t be stupid_ , Remus thought as he fought to contort his face into a smile that didn’t look like a grimace. _You’re not a Slytherin, would never be one. James would have given you a chance. They all would. They’d understand. I’m different._

 

 _Are you? Would they?_ James and Sirius had had it in for “ol’ Snivellus” ever since the boy had expressed a preference for Slytherin, as far as Remus knew. Remus would have heartily agreed that any wizard who actively wanted to be a Slytherin was someone to watch out for, certainly, but surely now Snape had paid for that mistake dearly. Remus had suffered through a painful and anxiety-ridden existence for years, one he genuinely wouldn’t have wished on anybody – and now he was faced with the realization that he was one of the _lucky_ ones. He was a werewolf, but he was also a steady student, a prefect, with a dedicated group of friends. He was _so, so lucky_.

 

But Snape? Severus Snape? What friends did he have who were willing to become Animagi, to stand by him? Would his parents even have the resources and willingness to deal with his condition, as his parents had, or would he be disowned, cast out like so many others of his – _their_ \- kind were? Remus had never bothered to find out much about Snape’s home life, beyond the general and obvious markers of poverty – he made a rule of never prying into other people’s business, in case they pried into his, and besides, getting background info on Snivellus was a lot less entertaining than attempting to put Snivellus back in the ground.

 

 _Not that the poor greaseball needs to sink any lower now_ , Remus thought miserably. The old game of Snape-baiting, once a wonderful bonding exercise that all four boys were fond of, had suddenly developed a bitter, nasty edge that Remus hated acknowledging. Had that cruelty always been there, he wondered, as he watched James leap up from his chair and announce that he would vanquish the vile beast before him with an enchanted bottle of hair lotion, or had he only just noticed it now? Now, because he knew from personal experience just how horrifically Snape’s life had been completely ruined? Did that mean he now had more in common with the gaunt, unpleasant little Slytherin weasel than he did with his own friends?

 

Sirius was always able to tell when Remus was in a dour mood. Glancing over at his best friend, Padfoot paused in his antics and turned to address the sulking werewolf. “Hey Moony, you alright? Come on, mate, you know we’re not having a go at you. You’re alright, you’re-“

 

“One of the good ones? Is that what you were going to say, Sirius? Well, sorry to break it to you, but this _good one_ has already bitten someone else, thanks to you, so I’m pretty sure that means I have to hand in my “Gold Star Werewolf” badge!”

 

As a stunned silence settled, Remus felt his stomach clench as though a giant had squeezed it. This was the first time he had really fought with his friends – and it was over _Snape_ , of all things. He could see the shock etched on their faces, as though he were a family pet who had suddenly started to growl and bite. It felt like a betrayal, and Remus was already struggling with enough guilt – guilt at what he had done, guilt at ignoring his mother’s advice, guilt at not standing up to his friends sooner, guilt at standing up to them now – that he could bear it no longer. His shoulders sagged and he turned around to leave for bed, eager to forget yet another day.

 

It was James Potter who stood to block his way. But he didn’t look angry or even disappointed. In fact, his expression was gentle, almost uncommonly so.

 

“Look, Remus, I know what this is about. I get it, and I’m sorry.”

 

Remus swallowed as James gestured to Peter and Sirius, half-forgotten even as their eyes were also firmly fixed on Remus. “Look, I’m sorry, James, it’s just I…” he trailed off, but James was already reaching out to clap a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 

“No, Remus, it’s ok. I know you’re worried about having Snape ruin our full moons, but Dumbledore will sort you out, trust me on this. He’d have to be stupid to stick the two of you in the same place. He’ll bung Snivellus out of our way in some dump in the Forbidden Forest, and then everything can go back to the way it was. See? No revenge for Snivellus.”

 

“And if he tries to tell anyone about you,” Peter piped up, “we’ll _get_ him. Right, Padfoot?”

 

In a different situation, Remus would have snorted at that comment. Peter enjoyed the thrill of Snape-hunting just as much as James and Sirius did, but he had never displayed the brains or guts to initiate a fight himself, and probably with good reason – James and Sirius together were about strong enough to get Snape on the ground, but Peter would have found himself with toenails for teeth if he took the Slytherin on without immediate backup. But Peter’s remark had found its intended target – Sirius was striding forward now, and with a dark gleam in his eye that Remus found almost frightening.

 

“Yeah, you bet, mate. He might be a wolf now, but if me and Prongs can keep you in check, then I reckon our newest furry friend shouldn’t be much of a bother, right Moony? We’re pretty good hands at revenge ourselves…”

 

“ _You,_ take revenge?” Remus spluttered as he backed away towards the bedroom. “Sweet Merlin, Sirius, don’t you think he’s already had enough? His life is ruined! Gone! Completely and utterly fucked! What else do you think you need to do to him, kill his dog and bury his goldfish? Tell Filch he’s planning on eating Mrs Norris?” Before Sirius could even open his mouth to answer, Remus had turned tail, his reserves of Gryffindor courage entirely spent, to bury himself underneath the covers of his bed.

 

 _Revenge_. Even after the other three had shuffled their way up to bed after roughly twenty minutes of hushed conversation – Remus had pretended to be asleep – the thought of revenge was still slithering around in Remus Lupin’s brain.

 

They had been assuming that Snape’s revenge would take the form of him spreading the truth about Lupin’s condition. Remus had been frightened of that too, initially. Now, with more space and time to think, he didn’t think it as likely. Oh, not that Snape wouldn’t jump at the chance to have him expelled, of course – hell, it would probably make his entire year. But Remus knew that, whatever else he might be, Severus Snape was far from a fool, and suspected that Snape was fully aware that making Remus’s condition widely known would also raise questions about Snape’s own soon-to-be-monthly disappearances. Not to mention Dumbledore’s strict instructions…

 

No, it was an entirely different, more…physical sort of revenge Remus had in mind as he lay on his back, uncomfortable and restless despite the warm velvety sheets. The sort of revenge that werewolves with grudges tended to favour.

 

Had he ended up creating a monster in more ways than one? If there were a single person in the world who could be said to hate the Marauders – not just dislike them, but to truly hate them, with a deep and unendingly vitriolic hatred that would probably continue long after they left Hogwarts – it was Severus Snape, and Remus couldn’t bring himself to deny that he had his reasons for that hatred. But a scrawny Slytherin boy with a grudge was one thing, even if he did have a knack for nasty homebrew jinxes and curses. But a werewolf – and here Remus shivered as a great dark mass flashed across his memory like a rat in a sewer, a shape of hair and fangs and hideously bright orange eyes – a werewolf was something else altogether.

 

Remus’s stomach heaved and a wave of miserable nausea gripped him as the awful memory of Greyback shifted and changed, the dark shape becoming rangier and smaller. The orange eyes and yellowing fangs remained, but now they peered out from behind a familiar curtain of lank, stringy black hair, so unlike Sirius’s shining, much-admired locks.

 

The sickening image stretched and contorted, now entirely a nightmare. Now Remus could imagine clearly, in his mind’s eye, his friends laughing, unaware of the lurking mass behind them. Remus’s subconscious muddled some memory into the fever dream, adding a child to the ill-defined, swirling mass of friends – James’s, judging by the impression of unruly dark hair – and the combination was complete. Remus tried everything – squeezing his eyes shut, visualizing his parents, repeating their words under his breath – but he was powerless to stop the hideous imagery thrown up by his anxious brain. A hulking hairy shape, now fully grown, patiently stalking down everyone Remus had ever loved, darkening their steps with his crooked shadow. A full moon glowing as the opportunity drew close, the strike savagely fast with fresh-sprouted talons, sharpened just for this day, this sweet long-awaited vengeance. A long inhuman face peeling away from the darkness, painted in the blood of his friends, their families, a monstrous fang-lined jaw creaking open to emit a delighted laugh more human than any sound a werewolf should make, a laugh that echoed into Remus’s brain and lodged there, unmoving and unnerving.

 

The old watch perched on Remus’s bedside table read 3.39 when Remus gave up on trying to sleep, opting instead to try and find solace in one of his books. However, the pages of his charms textbook blurred into an indecipherable mush as Remus filtered through the disjointed mess of his thoughts.

 

The flash of yellowed fangs darted across his mind, and Remus shook his head, trying harder than ever to focus on the increasingly faded pages. The lingering fear was mingled now with uncertainty – specifically, uncertainty regarding Severus Snape.

 

He had never let his mind stray to the Slytherin too much before now. Even when he had felt brief stabs of pity for the friendless, shabby loner, it had quickly been extinguished. Snape simply wasn’t pleasant enough to be consistently sympathetic, even when the odds were so overwhelmingly stacked against him. If he had ever caught wind of Remus’s occasional flashes of guilt or pity towards him, he would more than likely be disgusted and even angry, not grateful. Remus had always thought that that was part of the reason that Snape was such an appealing target – what he had was almost the opposite of what James had, a type of belligerent anti-charisma. Severus Snape acted at all times as though he were expecting something horrible - a punch, a kick, an insult, a plate – to come flying out of nowhere and hit him, and the only response he could fathom was to stay on his toes, keep his fists up, and to treat every possible social interaction as a fight that was heavily biased against him and yet one he was determined to win. While James and Sirius smiled at the whole world, Severus Snape snarled at it. That sullen dog-determination was what made baiting him so sweet to them, Remus was sure, so unlike the myriad other weak potential targets below them. So many others in Snape’s position would have lain down and conceded defeat after a week of continued attention from the Marauders. Snape, however, had still fought, even after all those years. He was, in short, the perfect football – hard enough to bounce right back up whenever he was slammed down, yet soft enough to yelp in pain whenever he hit the ground.

 

Remus flopped back onto his pillows, the entirely forgotten textbook landing with a _thunk_ on the carpet beneath. No doubt about it, Severus Snape was not the sort of person to forgive and forget, even if – _especially_ if – Dumbledore seemed to have swept the whole incident under the rug. But – and this was the big question on Remus’s mind – was he capable of murder? Or mauling? Could Remus be sure that he hadn’t set the whole sorry wheel in motion again, creating another sullen werewolf with a chip on his shoulder, ready and willing to bite another innocent in the name of revenge?

 

Rolling over, Remus sighed. Snape had cooked up several unpleasant hexes and used them liberally whenever he was in a corner, true. But that was hardly the same as purposefully infecting someone else with a hideous, life-destroying condition, was it?

 

 _Well, you tell me, Moony_ , yaps a nasty voice in his head that sounds weirdly like Peter’s, _a bunch of stupid pranks are hardly the same thing as sending a defenceless kid to meet an angry werewolf, are they?_

And that, he thought miserably, was exactly the crux of his problem. Sirius had changed their little game into something altogether crueller and more dangerous. Who could say whether or not Snape, damaged, bitter, lonely, without a hope for the future and most likely now thoroughly traumatized, would be willing to take advantage of the new weapons that Sirius had unwittingly bestowed on him?

 

Part of the problem, Remus realized, was that he just didn’t know Snape well enough. He knew the basics – Slytherin, git, greasy, bit of a swot, hardly any mates, pricklier than a cactus and nastier than a weekend with a ghoul – but he had no idea of how the guy would react in a situation like this. Yet he needed to find out, Remus realized. If he didn’t get a better grasp of Snape’s attitude right now, he would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. He needed to know more about Severus Snape.

 

As he felt sleep creeping up on him, Remus Lupin made the decision. He would go directly to Snape the first thing tomorrow and start his investigations.

 

Remus smiled dozily. _You make it all sound so easy_ , he said to himself, just before dropping into a thin, uneasy sleep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a delay on this one - it's been a bit of a monster, and I was trying really hard to make the Remus/Severus interactions feel believable. Hopefully it worked. Enjoy, please.

Remus Lupin found out the hard way that getting his hands on Severus Snape was much easier said than done. Remus had assumed from the start that he would be in for a difficult time when he had set his sights on his former victim, but he had thought that finding him, at least, would be simple enough.

 

Apparently not – Severus Snape had all but vanished from the halls of Hogwarts. According to Madam Pomfrey, he had been discharged from the hospital wing earlier that morning, but she hadn’t the slightest idea of where he had gone. Neither did Lily. Remus had been wary of asking her; even though they were on good terms, he had worried that Lily would assume his intentions were malicious – he had, after all, been guilty of ganging up on Snape before. Lily, however, seemed to accept his concern – “I know, it’s so scary, the Shrieking Shack’s not so far from here really…it’s not like Sev to do something like that, I have no idea what got into him, and he hasn’t been talking to me much lately…” – but could give him no hints as to his whereabouts, and in the end Remus felt like he had spent most of his day comforting Lily rather than making any headway on Snape.

 

There was, of course, the Marauders’ Map, but that was in Sirius’s possession, and Remus didn’t really want another run-in with him – not to mention the fact that Sirius would undoubtedly want to know why Remus wanted the map, and Remus didn’t want to make the already precarious situation between them worse by lying to him. Besides that, Sirius was serving the first of his detentions somewhere in the dungeons with Filch, so Remus was essentially on his own. It was not a sensation he relished. At this point, as he elbowed his way through a throng of second-year Hufflepuffs who had congregated on the staircase, Remus would have been happier to see Snape than any other person in the castle had ever been.

 

Somewhere on the third floor, after several semi-exhaustive sweeps of the castle (excluding common rooms, the Quidditch grounds and of course the girls’ lavatory), Remus was on the verge of giving up. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a familiar mop of lank hair turning a corner.

 

Fighting against the impulse to chase after him – Snape would either outrun him or stand his ground and hex him – Remus half-walked, half-jogged the length of the corridor, turning the same corner only to find…

 

Nothing. The corridor before him was completely empty, and a dead end to boot. Remus blinked, bewildered. He knew that the castle was littered with secret passageways, but as far as he was aware, there were none that came out on this corridor. Was he just going insane at this point? Remus was almost willing to concede it as a possibility. If Sirius were here, he would certainly suggest it – anyone who spent the entire morning actually trying to spend time with Snivellus was definitely losing it, he would say.

 

Remus groaned, slumping against the walls of the corridor. It was completely ridiculous; he had wasted his entire Saturday hunting down a boy who was terrified of him and certainly did not want his company. Yet Remus wanted to find Snape – he _needed_ to find Snape, to apologize, to say _something_ – otherwise he would never be at home in his own head again. Even if Snape didn’t accept his limp apology, at least Remus could tell himself that he had _tried._

 

Then, all of a sudden, the wall behind him shifted inwards, the bricks peeling and shrinking back to reveal an ancient-looking wooden door. Remus leapt aside, startled. If this was a secret passageway, it was an entirely new one to him, and you could never tell where those things would lead you. James had once told him about a secret passage in the Astronomy Tower that would take right inside the staff bathroom, and that he had once followed it only to be faced with Argus Filch in the process of taking a bath. Remus was pretty sure he had been joking, but it was better to be safe than sorry – Hogwarts, it seemed to him, was a castle with a strange sense of humour sometimes.

 

Yet this door didn’t look like it led to a secret tunnel; it looked like an entirely new classroom had sprung out of the masonry. His heart skipped as he realized that this must be where Snape had hidden himself away. Had he realized he was being followed? Perhaps he was waiting behind the door still, his wand drawn, ready and willing to curse Remus’s ears into cauliflower.

 

 _Well_ , Remus thought, _there’s only one way to find out_ , and pushed the heavy door open with both hands.

 

As the door swung open – surprisingly smoothly, as if the hinges had been recently greased – they revealed a room unlike any other in the castle. It was about the size of one of the smaller classrooms, but what made it unusual was the décor. It looked like a cross between an apothecary and a Muggle living room. There was a battered old couch up against a far wall and the stone floor was strewn with soft, colourful rugs, but there were also pouches and bundles of clearly magical ingredients – some quite rare, if Remus was any judge – hanging from the ceiling beams and piled upon shelves, spilling from drawers and scattered upon the large, sturdy desk that stood in the centre of the room. Also on the desk were several pieces of potions equipment – a cauldron, simmering on a low heat, a mortar and pestle, and a stained stirring rod. The scent coming from the cauldron was bitter, herbal and almost overpowering, but Remus felt his dratted curiosity take hold of him as he approached nevertheless, all thoughts of Snape temporarily banished…

 

Then, as if he had been summoned by Remus’s presence at the desk, Severus Snape appeared from behind one of the larger shelving units scattered about the room. Somehow Remus must have missed the sight of him, caught up as he was in the excitement of his discovery. He was clutching a bundle of large yellow roots in his hand, and Remus had just enough time to piece together that this room, whatever it was, must be some sort of brewing bolthole for Sni – _Snape,_ before the Slytherin looked up from his armful of potions ingredients and halts dead as he saw Remus standing, awkward and dazed-looking, in front of his full cauldron.

 

If Remus had never met Snape before, he would have been quite impressed by the speed with which Snape had dropped his burden in order to whip out his wand and point it square between Lupin’s eyes. Instead, all could focus on was the blind terror that glittered in the Slytherin’s eyes. Suddenly, Remus was forced to see himself as Snape did – as a monster who had come back to finish the job.

 

Up until that point, Remus had thought that he had worked past the guilt, at least well enough to face Snape again. Yet the sight of him now – his wand arm rigid, his legs, visibly trembling, his thin, white face contorted in a savage combination of hate and horror, the expression of a cornered animal that was ready to go down fighting – was enough to send Remus spiralling down all over again. Snape was behaving as though he were facing a monster – and Remus couldn’t defend himself. Oh, he could whip out his wand; perhaps get off a few defensive charms before Snape had the time to fire off a really heavy volley of curses. But there was nothing he could do against that terrified glare, the eyes that branded him a monster. Because that was what he was. A monster that had spent the day chasing down his favourite prey. What sort of idiot was he? Of course Snape would never accept his apology. A monster’s apology meant nothing, for it would not stop them being a monster, and from Snape’s point of view, Remus following him into this secret room looked nothing like an attempt at remorse, but like the stalking behaviour of a hungry predator who had been only narrowly thwarted before.

 

Remus’s mouth hung open, but his planned apology was crumbling in his throat, and it was Snape, in the end, who broke the silence that bubbled between them.

 

“Get out.” His voice was clipped, slightly hoarse, but there wasn’t even a hint of a waver or a break. “Get out before I skin you.”

 

Remus nodded slowly. It was all he could do, but that small movement somehow loosened his tongue. “OK, OK…it’s just…look, I didn’t come here to hurt you, I never meant – “

 

The harsh noise that came out of Snape’s throat could hardly be called a laugh; it was too angry, too – _wolfish_ to be anything that innocent. But the fear was still bright in his eyes. “I’m sure you didn’t. You never _meant._ An animal never means, does it? It just snaps. But I’ll turn you into a rug before I let you ruin this, Lupin. You might be willing to wallow in self-pity and do nothing about your condition until it’s time for you to bite someone else, but I’m not like you. You’ve ruined enough, but not this.”

_Ruin this? What “this” is he on about?_ Remus felt that dratted twinge of curiosity returning. Nevertheless, he knew that this was his last chance to apologize, and he wasn’t about to let it slip past. There would be time later to figure out what Snape was doing – right now Remus was just relieved to find out that the Slytherin didn’t seem to be planning a Greyback-style rampage of revenge.

 

“Listen, I didn’t come here to wallow or to hurt you…again. I came to apologize.” Snape’s gaze did not soften, nor did he lower his wand even an inch, but Remus felt his throat loosen and suddenly his voice felt a lot stronger, the words coming to him more easily. “I didn’t know what Sirius was planning on doing. I swear, I really didn’t. I know you think I’m just a lackey or a – a henchman for him, or something, but I wouldn’t ever… _ever_ do what Greyback did. Not on purpose. That’s the truth.”

 

“Greyback?” Snape sounded confused now, instead of hostile, and Remus realized too late that the Slytherin had no idea what he was talking about – of course Remus had never told him the truth about who bit him. For a moment, looking at Snape’s quizzical expression, Remus hoped desperately that he would let it go – but that wasn’t like Snape, and within seconds realization dawned on the boy’s pale, thin face. Remus flushed, looking away. He had never meant to reveal that…

 

“He’s the one who bit you?” For the briefest of moments, Remus could almost convince himself that he heard a twinge of…something in Snape’s voice, something almost like pity, or at least a sort of sympathetic horror. Then the moment passed, and Remus was looking once more into a face full of hate. “No wonder this happened, then. Guess he passed more than a disease on.”

 

That was almost too much for Remus, and he was on the verge of doing something – either storming out or screaming back, because for all his guilt he had been right about one thing, and that was that Severus Snape, human or werewolf, was about as pleasant to be around as a dragon with a toothache. Then something about Snape’s hands caught his eye, and he stilled, his retort dying in his throat. They were crisscrossed with ugly, raised welts, welts that certainly hadn’t been present the last time Remus had seen him. The first, awful thought that jumped into his head – that he had managed to mutilate Snape’s hands on top of everything else – was quickly dismissed; werewolf bites tend not to show up after the fact, particularly if they had been treated quickly, as Snape’s had been. These were something else…and then it hit Remus as the cauldron behind them emitted a soft burp that released an acrid, familiar smell into the room.

 

“Monkshood? You’re working with monkshood? Where did you get that?”

_“None of your business!”_ Snape’s voice rose to a scream as he moved to stand between Remus and the full cauldron.

 

It was too late – the revelation about Snape’s activities was enough to completely wipe all of Remus’s previous preoccupations from his mind. He craned his neck to better investigate the contents of the desk behind Snape. The Slytherin puffed himself up, squaring his shoulders and darting around in an attempt to prevent him from seeing too much, but Remus had already identified the twisted, pale roots piled beside the mortar and pestle. Monkshood, otherwise known as aconite or wolfsbane. A core ingredient in several high-level potions, not exactly rare but highly volatile – and incredibly toxic in even the smallest of does to werewolves. Remus felt his mouth drop open, his eyes pulled back to the disfiguring marks scarring Snape’s forearms. Had he driven Snape to attempt suicide by monkshood? Or was this a revenge scheme – was the monkshood brew a poison that Snape had been planning to slip him?

 

Before he could voice any of these concerns, Snape had decided to move again. In the blink of an eye the teen had closed the distance between them and grabbed the Gryffindor by the tie, jamming his wand into the flesh of Remus’s forehead.

 

“Leave…now…” he hissed, his stale breath hot on Remus’s cheek. “You’ll get some when it’s ready, believe me, whether you want it or not…but not before I’ve had some.”

 

“What? Have you lost it?” sputtered Remus. “How do you expect to poison me if you’ve topped yourself first? Hired someone to do it, have you?”

 

It was Snape’s turn to look absolutely bewildered. “Poison? You think I’m trying to poison you?” He snarled, baring yellowed teeth in a gesture that felt uncomfortably wolfish to Remus. “If I wanted you dead I’d invite a Muggle hunting party up here, wolf. I’ve got better things to do than scurry about after some… some stinking half-breed who’s not even competent enough to murder someone, you hear me?”

 

Then Snape pulled away, as if the brief bolt of courage granted to him by Remus’s proximity to his precious potion had suddenly worn off. Remus swallowed, and backed away. In this state, he had no idea what Snape was capable of; even if poison was off the menu, the Slytherin looked about ready to hex him. But Remus couldn’t stop staring at Snape’s mutilated hands. What was so important to Snape that he was literally willing to disfigure himself to achieve it? Could it be something other than revenge?

 

“I’m not accepting your apology, wolf. Why are you still here, if you’re not here to get a second bite of me?”

 

The sound of Snape’s voice, lower now but still dangerous, startled Remus into answering without thinking about his response.

 

“I…just want to know what you’re doing here.”

 

“Pity that’s none of your business.”

 

“It might be.”

 

Snape’s head jerked up, his face alight with furious indignation, but before he could speak, Remus quickly stepped forward.

 

“What I mean is…look, just…listen, alright? I’m the only other werewolf in this castle. I’ve been one almost as long as I remember. And…I want to help you. I’m sorry I bit you, I never meant for it to happen…but it happened. And I can help you, help you with – well, all of it. If you need to know anything about...you know, our condition…you can come to me and ask me. I won’t laugh at you, or tell anyone. I mean, I _can’t,_ even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. We’re in the same boat now, whether you like it or not, Severus.”

_It must have been Lily_ , Remus thought dazedly, as he watched Snape’s pupils dilate and his fingers twitch at the sound of his name, the first time Remus had ever said it, at least out loud. He had been talking to her for so long about him…it was probably just pure luck that he hadn’t called him _Sev_. Remus almost laughed aloud. Now _that_ would have been hellish.

 

Yes, perhaps something of Lily had leaked through into Remus’s words. He could see the suspicion still glittering in Snape’s eyes, but it was dimmer now, accompanied with a spark of what Remus could only assume was hope. Watching Snape’s – Severus’s – face was like watching a siege; years and years of shored-up misery and rightful suspicions warring with a long-dormant hunger for affirmation and knowledge. Remus could see the fear roiling in Severus’s stance, his clenched fists and his narrowed eyes. It was fear of Remus _(of rejection, of betrayal, of mockery, of being made the monkey and the punchline for the eight hundredth time)_ versus the fear of what they now shared – the wolf. The full moon. The inescapable transformation that shredded all control.

 

Perhaps as it was fated always to do, the fear of the wolf won out over everything else.

 

Severus’s stance loosened. Not by a huge amount; he was still clearly on the defensive, with his fingers clutching his wand in a way that would let him fire off a hex at the slightest provocation. Yet the air between the two students now seemed less toxic, and Remus felt instinctively that the threat of a fight had passed them – at least for now. He would have to tread carefully, and treat Severus like a spooked unicorn. _Calm behaviour, no sudden moves, and be ready to run like hell if he starts to charge you._

 

The lanky boy didn’t look much like he was about to charge at all, however. He was standing stock still, his black eyes still fixed on Remus. His shoulders were hunched, as if he were anticipating a blow, but Remus had always been good at reading people, and he could see that Severus was working up the courage to ask him something. So Remus waited.

 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

 

“The transformation?” Remus queried, his voice gentle. Severus nodded his head mutely.

 

In other circumstances, Remus might have considered softening the blow. Right now though, painful honesty seemed like the best policy.

 

“Yes. More than anything else I’ve felt. It’s been years, and I still haven’t gotten used to it.” His voice dropped lower as he continued. “But waking up is almost worse. Knowing you’re not in control of yourself…that hurts too.”

 

Severus let out a shrill bark of laughter; Remus could recognize the effort at keeping hysteria at bay for what it was, and didn’t react. “The bedside manner could use a little work, wolf.”

 

Remus merely shrugged, unable to stop a little smile spreading across his face. “You can call me Remus, y’know. Since I’m not the only wolf in this room now.”

 

“Thanks to you and your little squad of Gryffindors.” Severus snapped, but the bite of his words was dulled by the fact that Remus could clearly see tears in his eyes, threatening to spill.

 

Remus knew that he was probably the most emotionally mature member of that “little squad of Gryffindors,” but even he had no idea of how to handle the sort of scene that might ensue if Severus actually started crying. The Slytherin genuinely appeared to be on the brink of a breakdown brought about by Remus’s words, and the Gryffindor was sure that any attempts on his part to comfort Severus would probably just embarrass and thus anger him. But he didn’t want to throw in the towel now, not when it almost seemed that he was making some sort of progress with Severus – in all honesty, the apology had gone much better than he expected, considering Severus had not actually hexed him, at least not yet.

 

And beyond that…it felt incredible, but Remus found that he actually wanted Severus to trust him. Ol’ Snivelly, the human grease stain himself.

 

Was it really so strange, though? Remus had never met another werewolf in the flesh, unless you counted Greyback (he didn’t). The idea of having another boy his own age, a friend who knew exactly what it was like to transform, to help him through it, had been a fantasy of his since he had been young, so young and frightened, though he had never expected that it would come true. Of course, there was Sirius, James and Peter…but it wasn’t the same for them, Remus thought wearily. To them, transforming was fun, painless…consequence free. Perhaps that explained why Sirius appeared not to realize the full seriousness of what he had done – he saw their full moon jaunts as something exciting to be anticipated. He had never truly understood Remus’s terror of the wolf inside, although he had done his best to help him in his own reckless way. But Severus was like him now, the pair of them unfortunately united by lycanthropy. Remus was sure that he would not have been Severus’s first choice as a companion (Severus certainly wasn’t his own first choice for anything), but nevertheless…here was his chance to have someone he might be able to confide in, and to be the helpful werewolf ‘big brother’ figure he himself had longed for when he was younger. He would reduce the chances of Severus going off the rails, and both he and Severus would gain a friend who could empathize with the other’s unique struggles.

 

All of these thoughts pulsed like lightning through Remus’s brain, and his arm was moving to his pocket even before his mind had reached a decision. Severus immediately flinched and raised his wand at the sudden movement, but the sight of what was in Remus’s hand made him pause, confused. Remus gingerly offered his handful to the other werewolf.

 

“You like Chocolate Frogs, right? I still have some left over from my birthday.”

 

Severus grunted, confusion still clearly etched on his angular face. “Never had one before.”

 

“What, really?” Remus was genuinely surprised. He had guessed that Severus’s diet had been inadequate, based on how stunted and weedy he had been in his first two years before puberty had sent him shooting upwards. Apparently he had underestimated how inadequate. He firmly pressed the chocolate into Severus’s unresisting hand. Severus glanced at it with still-shining eyes, as though he were unsure of what to do with it. Remus was briefly tempted to ask if he needed it chewed for him, then Severus surprised him again.

 

“You said you hate it.” He was looking straight into Remus’s face now, and Remus was completely at a loss to describe the emotion he saw in the glittering black eyes trained on him.

 

“I said I hate what?”

 

“Losing control. You said it hurts, knowing you’re not in control of yourself.”

 

“Of course it does. I mean, do you think I enjoy it? Turning into a slavering animal every month? It’s hardly summer at the Quidditch World Cup, is it?”

 

Remus’s jokes would have defused the atmosphere perfectly, if he were with James and friends. They would have slapped him on the back and spent the evening swapping jokes. Severus, however, didn’t react, and Remus wasn’t surprised at that – Severus had more than enough reasons to distrust laughter, as it was usually directed at him. Remus was coming to realize that he would have to take a very different tack with Severus than he did with his other friends. Before he could properly come up with a new conversational approach, however, Remus found himself being dragged forwards towards the simmering cauldron.

 

Remus only just suppressed the urge to grab his wand. Severus could move as quickly as a snake when he wanted to, and his grip was less than gentle. For a heartbeat, he thought that the Slytherin meant to shove him into the bubbling cauldron. But he stilled when he realized what Severus was trying to do.

 

Severus dropped his arm and stood back, gesturing silently at the concoction stewing before them. Holding his breath against the pungent steam, Remus peered inside. The potion was thin and glistened with an oily sheen that suggested it was a relatively fresh base, something that Severus had only just whipped up. The stink of monkshood was almost overpowering, and Remus found himself wondering how he had missed it in the first place.

 

Leaning back, he met Severus’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what his reaction was supposed to be, so he decided to play it safe.

 

“Not sure what help I’m supposed to provide here, to be honest. Potions is more your area than mine.”

 

“I wasn’t asking for help.” Severus’s voice was sharp, intense, his eyes gleaming with an energy Remus had never seen before, as if standing next to the brew was giving him power. Remus found himself hooked on the sound of his voice, unable to draw his eyes from the boy who only weeks ago had been lower than dirt in his eyes.

 

Severus reached out and snatched up the stirring stick next to the cauldron with a deceptive elegance. Twirling the stick in his hand, he turned to Remus, and smiled. It was the first time he had ever been smiled at by Severus Snape, and Remus couldn’t stop himself from smiling back at the sight, even if there was an undeniable touch of sneer in the other boy’s expression.

 

“You said you hated losing control. If this turns out the way I think it will...I suppose I could spare a drop or two for you, wolf, if it means you don’t get your teeth into anyone else.”

 

For a moment Remus was still, uncomprehending. Then understanding dawned, and he couldn’t suppress a gasp. That was a bad idea; he ended up getting a lungful of hot, bitter steam.

 

“Severus…a-are you saying…” he managed to choke out between coughs and gulps of air.

 

Severus didn’t reply, choosing instead to stir the stinking potion counter-clockwise. He glanced briefly down at Remus, who was still doubled over and wheezing. Even from his less than ideal vantage point, Remus could still see the wild glitter of determination in his companion’s eyes. Remus had seen that look before, on the faces of mad scientists in Muggle movies, the ones who were hellbent on moving heaven and earth to find what they searched for in their dank, dungeon-like labs.

 

Yet when Severus spoke next, his voice was surprisingly quiet, even a little tender, as if he were addressing an infant. Remus half-suspected he was talking to the potion, not to him at all.

 

“I think it’s called Wolfsbane.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ, I really took my time on this one...sorry, hopefully won't happen again. Enjoy!

“Wolfsbane?” Remus replied, blinking owlishly.

 

“Did I stutter, dogbreath?” Severus’s voice returned to its more familiar coldness. “Here, educate yourself if you’re so interested.”

 

“But I thought you were showing me – hey!” Remus yelped as he was unexpectedly slapped across the face by a thick paperback journal. Yanking back the cover of the offending text revealed the title ‘The Journal of Experimental Potioneers, Issue 117’ in bright silver print.

 

Severus had by this point hunched over his simmering cauldron with an expression that promised murder if he was disturbed, unspoken truce or no unspoken truce, so Remus decided to be proactive and opened the journal.

 

It didn’t take much searching to find the right article. It was a multi-page spread, full of blocks of dense text interspersed with highly detailed and technical-looking diagrams. Scanning the pages, Remus could make out – even with his admittedly rudimentary Potions knowledge – that the potion in question looked highly complex, with columns and pictures of ingredients he had never seen before, not even in Slughorn’s stores.

 

A sentence caught his eye.

 

“Hang on…it says here that this is all only in the experimental stages. Look, Belby says he hasn’t even tested it on live subjects yet!”

 

Severus snarled and batted the proffered journal away. “Do you think I can’t read or something, wolf? It’s called the Journal of _Experimental_ Potioneers, you spineless dimwit.”

 

Remus leaned back, nervous again. “Look, I know you’re a crack hand at Potions, but this is the sort of stuff that you need to be a professional to get right. I didn’t even recognize most of those ingredients, let alone the techniques, and this is all still at the theoretical stage, put together by a bunch of crazy potioneers who don’t even know if they’re on the right track or not. I mean, do you honestly think that this is the first attempt to cure lycanthropy? Trust me, I’ve been through literally hundreds of -”

 

“You DON’T STILL DON’T GET IT, DO YOU?” Severus’s scream was harsh and sudden enough to startle Remus into dropping the journal. Severus advanced on him, his face alight, brandishing the dripping stirring stick like a makeshift wand.

 

“This…this isn’t a _cure_ , moron. This won’t stop you howling at the full moon. This won’t make you a nice normal little wizard and it won’t mean you’ll be able to keep the Ministry from knocking on your door. Belby’s theory is that by stewing monkshood in a base of manticore bile and ashwinder venom, it might be possible to…tame the werewolf, render it harmless. It’s a small breakthrough, but it sounds like Belby is on the right track…he knows well enough that trying to stop a transformation is a fool’s errand anyway…”

 

Once again, Remus got the impression that Severus was not addressing him directly, but had instead begun talking to himself, or to some imaginary conference of respected potioneers that were hanging on his every word. He had a brief, amusing mental image of the gangly teenager before him dressed in a professor’s robes, pacing and ranting distractedly in front of rows and rows of his bewildered peers. In order to stop himself laughing at that thought – which would surely end in disaster – Remus decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.

 

“Well, if all he has to go on is the ingredients and some theory, why is Belby even publishing this stuff? Isn’t he risking someone else nicking his idea and then taking all the credit?”

 

Severus tilted his head back and let out a sigh that suggested that he had never in his life heard anything quite as exhaustingly stupid as what Remus had just said.

 

“Do you ever think before you open your mouth? Or are you such a doormat that you let all your little friends do all the thinking for you?” He scowled as he returned to his hunched position over the brew in the cauldron, his eyes darting between Remus and the potion. “Clearly you don’t have the slightest clue about how professionals go about their research.”

 

“None whatsoever,” Remus replied dryly. Severus wanting to kill him he could live with, but all of the sarcasm was starting to get a bit much.

 

Severus continued as if he had not heard. “The Journal was founded so that talented potioneers could keep abreast of advances in the field and share their knowledge with each other, making it easier to develop new potions. That’s their motto, see. _O_ _mnes ab omnibus discamus._ We learn all things from everybody. If I make a potion that works, everyone will know I made it because of Belby’s research, because he published it here. He’s one of the only potioneers still interested in lycanthropy as a field of research. Most of the literature out there is incredibly outdated, made-up or both. It’s a niche subject. Most researchers have moved on to more lucrative fields.”

 

“How come I’ve never heard of this? It sounds like this could be a life changer for me – for you – Merlin, for hundreds of wizards out there in the world.” Remus couldn’t keep the note of hope from his voice. He hadn’t been lying when he had said that he had gone through a vast range of “treatments” intended to cure his lycanthropy, and he had long ago given up all faith in medical magic. Yet the article seemed to be written by a genuine potions expert, experimental or not…and there was something in Severus’s voice whenever he talked about the potion…the twitchy, angry hesitancy vanished, replaced by an intensity and drive that spoke of bottomless determination. Could Remus really believe that this bitter potion and it’s even more bitter creator could help him?

 

“Listen…Severus…if this works out…” Remus paused, and then sighed. “Look, I know I, of all people, have no right to ask you to do anything for me, but do you think…”

 

Remus’s words were drowned out by an unexpected sound. Severus Snape was laughing. It wasn’t the slightly hysterical giggling of earlier, but it was no less unpleasant a sound. Severus sounded like a boy who had just successfully pulled off a rather cruel joke.

 

“You were going to ask me for some, weren’t you? You were going to ask me to help you be a good little werewolf.” Severus snickered, his thin lips pulled back in a malicious grin. “You really think I give a shit about you either way, Lupin? I don’t. You could rot in that Shack for all I care, you and every other werewolf along with you.”

 

Turning his back to Remus once again, Severus continued in a low hiss, his voice rough and tinged with the echoes of an accent Remus couldn’t quite place. “If it works, you’ll get some. But I’ll tell you this right now, wolf. I’m not doing this because I want to save you from the pain, or whatever soft thoughts were filling your head. I’ll give you the cure, and then there’s no excuse. No animal. No instinct. No Sirius Black playing puppet master. I’ll give you a cure – and you’ll never bite again. No one will. I’ll see to it.”

 

Remus was struck speechless, and the sight seemed to amuse Severus.  He let out another low, nasty laugh. “You know, that wasn’t a half bad idea, slipping you some of this. Every potioneer needs a good test subject. What do you say? It’ll probably end up being the most useful thing you ever do in your miserable life.”

 

Remus stared at the Slytherin, his mind swirling with rage and hurt. It was rage that won out. How on earth had he ever thought that this would be worthwhile? Snape had clearly lost whatever thin scraps of sanity he had left, and he had never exactly been the most stable student in the first place. Not even lycanthropy had brought the aggressive, overly suspicious prat down a peg – if anything, he was even worse than before.

 

 _It’s almost like traumatic experiences can have negative effects on people,_ a small internal voice chimed, but Remus was having none of it. He felt he knew a lost cause when he saw one. He turned to leave.

 

Before opening the doors, however, he was compelled to turn around. Severus was methodically lining up the roots on the desk, arranging them by size.

 

“You know, if anyone in your house knew what you were and what you were doing, you’d probably be dead, Snape.”

 

He’s not sure what made him say it. He wasn’t even sure what the intent behind it was – a threat? A neutral warning? Yet Snape didn’t react at first, and it wasn’t until Remus had turned to leave for good that the boy behind him replied, in a quiet, even voice that was chillingly calm and precise.

 

“I know. I’m glad to be surrounded by people with standards.”

 

The thunderous slam of the door echoed through Remus’s mind long after they had faded from the corridor.

 

Remus managed to get all the way to the library without really thinking. His mind was nothing but a jumbled mess of memories of the bizarre confrontation he had just fled – escaped, really – rolling around and replaying again and again until they made no sense. It wasn’t until at least a half-hour later, sitting at a small desk with a book on Dark creatures opened in front of him (more for show than anything), that Remus was fully able to grip the weight of the situation.

 

He was no longer the only werewolf in Hogwarts. He had bitten a Slytherin student who hated him and all his friends, thanks to a badly-thought out prank that he himself had not been aware of. Said Slytherin, who hated him more than ever now, was brewing a potentially toxic experimental potion based on untested research and had threatened/promised to slip him some, regardless of whether it would poison or cure him. Meanwhile all of his friends were probably set on avoiding him now, either because they were uncomfortable about the repercussions of the prank or because he had alienated them by defending the aforementioned hateful Slytherin, who had no interest in doing anything whatsoever for him. All in all, everyone Remus knew was acting like a complete tosspot or a gibbering maniac, with the possible exception of Lily Evans.

 

“AaaaAAAAAAUURGH!” wailed Remus, banging his head loudly against the desktop.

 

“Mr. Lupin! This is a library, not the hospital wing!”

 

“Sorry, Miss Pince.” Remus muttered, flushing.

 

Nevertheless, Remus felt a little better as he made his way to the Great Hall for dinner. It was pretty embarrassing whenever it slipped out like that, but it did a young werewolf good to have a nice howl now and again.

 

*

 

Brewing had always calmed Severus Snape down. Even now, after everything he had been through – the trauma of the bite, the chronic pain, the shock of seeing Lupin again and the rage and shouting and the week of wary, exhausted solitude that followed it – the process of stirring, chopping, sorting and slicing soothed his soul and made him feel like he was on solid ground. When the world was reduced down to a cauldron, a flame and a list of ingredients, Severus could truly feel like he could handle whatever the world threw at him.

 

If only the rest of Hogwarts was so accommodating. OWL season was kicking into gear, and Severus’s classes were as demanding as they had ever been, with mountains of complex homework on top of revision. Most days Severus barely had a spare hour to spend carefully preparing the Wolfsbane base before curfew.

 

And of course there was no special treatment for him, he thought bitterly as he collapsed onto his four-poster bed, draped in green velvet. He was prepared to bet that Dumbledore and the rest had made it their life’s work to ensure that their precious Gryffindor werewolf had all the amenities necessary to sail through his OWLs in style. After all, they had clearly shown themselves willing to make a thousand exceptions for a dangerous Dark monster who wasn’t really that impressive a student, either. Oh, he got good marks, certainly, but Severus was willing to bet his paltry life savings that it was mostly down to favouritism. It had to be.

 

Of course Lupin would get away with it. That was how it always was. Lupin was a monster, but he was a monster who smiled and shared and played nice with everyone else, and so it was all OK. If you looked good, then you _were_ good, in most people’s eyes.

 

 _That’s how it worked back home,_ Severus thought miserably. _And that’s how it works here. That’s how it works everywhere.  I was stupid to think anything else._ Severus shut his eyes and tried to dismiss memories of his father, straight-backed and stern as he moved purposefully through the streets, while a thin, sickly-looking boy scurried behind, trying to hide a black eye behind a swinging curtain of dark hair.

 

The conversation between him and Lupin was still rattling around in his head, a full week after the Gryffindor had stormed out of the secret brewing room that, unbeknownst to Severus, was known to the Marauders as the Room of Requirement. Since then, Severus had found himself slipping further and further into a haze of constant, low-level pain and disorientation. Even small sounds seemed magnified to an unbearable degree, and the slightest accidental brush in the corridors was enough to turn him into a twitching, irritable mess. His joints ached, his eyes were dry and he slept only in fitful spurts. What had happened to his appetite was even worse. His first year at Hogwarts had been the first time in Severus’s life that he had been able to eat until he was truly full, but he was still prone to sneaking most of his dinner into his pocket –carefully sealed with a fabric-protecting charm – in order to eat it later, in the quiet (relative) safety of the Slytherin common room. Now however, he was hungry all the time; ravenously so, in a way that reminded him of home in the worst possible way. Yet whenever he ate something, it would end up coming right back up again only minutes later, regular as clockwork. Severus had burned through his entire hidden stash of meticulously brewed Stomach-Soothing Solution in that week alone, and brewing more while also juggling the Wolfsbane project and his OWL studies was not a task he was relishing.

 

Worst of all, however, were the mood swings. Severus Snape was a Slytherin to the bone, and like all Slytherins he prided himself on self-control. For a reedy, rough-looking boy from a bad neighbourhood with not a lot of friends, it was a necessary element of life. _Don’t try to fight back when your father eats your dinner, no matter how hungry you are. Don’t use your magic in front of the Muggle kids – control yourself, Severus!  Don’t rise to the bait when older boys try to goad you into fighting, no matter how many times they sneer “mudblood”. Don’t let anyone know how you really feel._ It was baked into him at this point. Yet only two days ago he had threatened a sixth year Ravenclaw who had spilt ink on his notes in the library, and even some of his fellow Slytherins had started to notice that the permanent scowl on his face had acquired a new, more vicious edge. Severus felt like he was wearing a tight jacket under his skin at all times, and it was making him want to scream and snarl and snap at the slightest provocation. On good days, he felt like he was going completely insane. On bad days, he would look into the mirror and see his father staring back at him, his face twisted in the same grimace that he would wear before the fists started flying.

 

 At first, Severus had tried convincing himself that it was all merely a product of the stress brought about by the whole rotten situation – the other Slytherins seemed to accept this excuse at face value, none of them too concerned as long as Severus made sure not to puke on anyone’s homework – but in the end he was forced to accept the sick truth. He was a werewolf, and soon these small changes would give way to an altogether more troublesome one – that is, if he didn’t die of OWL-related stress before the next full moon.

 

 _Why am I even bothering with my OWLs?_ Severus thought spitefully as he turned to bury his face in the pillows. _There’s no chance I’m getting a job, not when I’m a monster._

 

 _And it’s all his fault._ The thought was as bitter as the monkshood that burned and stung at his skin. Severus knew that it was Sirius Black who had orchestrated his downfall, but it was the werewolf’s face that he saw every night as he turned and writhed under the blankets, sweaty and desperate for sleep. Lupin, who had walked into this school as though he had any right to be there, who had tormented him for years, who had the trust and affection of the entire school even though he had done nothing to deserve it. Sometimes, whenever he was cornered by the Marauders, Severus would notice a forcedness creeping its way into Lupin’s voice; once or twice the boy had even suggested leaving the Slytherin to his own devices (“he’s hardly worth it, James…c’mon…”). It had only ever made him even more hateful in Severus’s eyes. If there was one ideal that Severus Snape believed in, it was that of self-reliance. He had learned early on that looking to others for help was a fool’s game. It was one of the many qualities that had drawn him to Slytherin, along with his desperate drive to prove himself as something more than a shabby, snot-nosed whelp, pissing his childhood away in the Cokeworth gutters.

 

Lupin, though…he was a dog in more ways than one, Severus sneered to himself. He knew why Lupin picked on him. It wasn’t the straightforward hatred of Potter, or Black’s cruel streak, or even Pettigrew’s fondness for spectacle. Lupin picked on Snivellus because it was what his friends did, and Lupin wanted to keep his friends, and Snivellus was the price he had to pay. Severus hated Potter, Black and Pettigrew, each one of them a coward in his own way, but something about Lupin especially brought bile into his mouth. Severus knew that Lupin, unlike the rest of them, knew about suffering, about consequences. He knew the Gryffindor was even capable of a degree of empathy and rational thinking he would have put beyond the other three. But Lupin was a special brand of coward, one who followed the leader even though he had no personal vendetta against Severus, and every time Severus thought about him, the tired-looking, sandy-haired Gryffindor who had ruined his life for good, his hands curled into fists.

 

It disgusted him to admit it, but sometimes Severus realized that Lupin’s behaviour was a mirror of his own. It was another reason he was so uniquely loathsome to Severus. Watching Lupin spinelessly bend over to accommodate and enable the worst of the people surrounding him, Severus knew it wasn’t that different from how he himself would turn a blind eye to the cruelties of his housemates when it suited him. The similarities left a foul acidic feeling in his throat. _So much for being self-reliant, eh, Sev?_

 

Another wave of nausea gripped him, and Severus swiftly rolled out of bed, making a grab for the chamber pot underneath his mattress. Every night since the incident, he had spent long minutes hunched over it, retching and sweaty and shivering uncontrollably. Even now, clutching the cold porcelain to his knees, Severus was careful not to make too much noise. He didn’t want his dorm mates thinking he was weak.

 

It seemed that he had managed to avoid the worst this particular night, however; the contents of his stomach decided to stay where they were, for the time being. However, his guts still felt sore and clenched, and his head was swimming unpleasantly. Suddenly, the dorms that had been his refuge for so long had become hideously confining – instead of being cosily warm, the air felt thick and stuffy, making him light-headed. Before he could think twice about what he was doing, Severus Snape had grabbed his wand and strode out of the Slytherin dorms, out of the common room and into the deep, open depths of the ancient castle.

 

The colder air of the corridors and halls was a welcome change, but it didn’t completely soothe Severus’s churning stomach or his pounding headache. He had always hated falling ill, he recalled, even more so than the average child. Of course his parents could rarely afford proper medicine for him, and his mother would sometimes work herself to the bone over a boiling cauldron in an effort to brew an acceptable remedy, usually some foul sludge that tasted of leafmould and made Severus’s throat itch. He hated being trapped in a bed, weak, reliant on other people – usually people who were perfectly open about the fact that he was being a burden and a sissy. This, however…this was worse. He could no longer even trust himself, his whole personality warping and changing at the whims of his body. He had read all about it – this was his body gearing up for the big change, when it would be forced to tear itself apart and shape itself again, using up all of his energy and almost all of his magic.

 

Even as Severus’s mind was absorbed by all of these thoughts, his feet knew exactly where they were taking him. The now-familiar iron doors swirled into view, and Severus charged through them, not caring for once about who might be around to hear him.

 

The bitter tang of monkshood filled his mouth and nostrils as the heavy doors swung shut with a quiet booming noise, and Severus exhaled carefully, eager to avoid damaging his lungs even more than they likely were already. It was ironic, he thought as he approached the quietly bubbling cauldron, that the ingredient that promised salvation was the same thing that burned his hands and stung his eyes as he worked with it.

 

Severus peered carefully into the cauldron, examining the shimmering liquid within. It had thickened considerably since he had painstakingly stirred in the last batch of diced monkshood and crushed fox livers – a promising sign. Now he would be able to move on to the last crucial steps.

 

Severus took a shaky breath as he picked up his stirring rod. He was flying blind here. The article had been very detailed when describing how to brew the base potion, but Belby had been keen to note that he was still working on ironing out the –as he had put it – “more worrying potential side effects, up to and including preventing the patient from recovering human form, long-term magical suppression, permanent disfigurement and erectile dysfunction.”

 

Severus’s fingers trembled slightly as he stirred the mixture in slow, counter-clockwise strokes. Depending on whether he had brewed everything perfectly, the potion in front of him could save him from the terror lurking in his own body or damn him inescapably – if he even lived through drinking it.

 

It had seemed like an easy choice at the time. The first thing he had wanted to do after he was released from the hospital wing, fuming in disbelief and incoherent with desperate misery and rage, was to run – run far away from Hogwarts, from the sneering faces of his tormentors, from the jaws of the werewolf, from the indifferent teachers and purist classmates. Perhaps he would experience a day or two of true freedom before the Ministry tracked him down and graciously put him out of his misery. But then he had remembered, in what felt like a flash of lightning through his brain, remembered reading an article in one of his favourite potions journals. _Something about a cure for lycanthropy…well, no, not exactly a cure…_

 

Not a cure, but certainly good enough. Severus had known, before he had finished rereading the article, that Belby was going in the right direction. The purpose of his proposed Wolfsbane potion was not to prevent the unfortunate werewolf from transforming at all. That had been the aim of many other mediwizards throughout history, and every single attempt had failed. A werewolf’s transformation was, fundamentally, a magical one; Muggles could not become werewolves. The change was so massively traumatic precisely for this reason – lycanthropy harnessed and warped the magic of its victim, turning it against the body that harboured it. There were some – slightly alternative – wizards and witches who claimed that lycanthropy was governed by Old magic, the power of the moon, which could not be channelled or stopped by even the most powerful of warlocks. Whether or not this was true was, in Severus’s opinion, entirely beside the point. All he knew now was that there was no way that lycanthropy could be cured once it had encountered the host’s natural magic, short of somehow removing the victim’s magic entirely.

 

The idea behind Wolfsbane was distractingly simple in comparison. If the transformation could not be stopped, then the next best thing was to render the transformed beast docile. It was an extension of the older attempts to make highly complex doping potions that would lie dormant in the bloodstream until triggered by the transformation, at which point they would instantly knock the werewolf out. It had been a clever idea in theory, Severus had to grudgingly admit, but in practice, the accelerated metabolism of werewolves simply burned through such concoctions, rendering them useless. And so the balancing act with Wolfsbane was similar; Severus had to make a potion potent enough to keep its efficacy during and after the transformation altered his body chemistry, yet also not so strong as to actually kill him.

 

As he completed the final stir, the potion began to roil, and the bitter stink grew even more intense, but the colour changed from a subtle green to a muddy shade of dark blue. Severus felt a tingle of excitement jolt across his limbs. This was what he lived for – the moments when his expertise was put to the test, when everything rested on his skilful and precise brewing. Even for him, the theoretical potion had proved a challenge. It was far beyond anything he had learned in class, not just in terms of the rarity of the ingredients but in the amount of complex potions theory necessary to understand the brewing process. Severus had more than once been forced into the Restricted Section of the Library in pursuit of the meaning of Berrywigg’s Sixth Principle or Chinn’s paper on the Doctrine of Signatures. It was an exhausting extra workload on top of his OWL study, but it was all essential to know if he wanted to properly use and measure poisonous ingredients. The monkshood, the most common and – to him, at least – most dangerous ingredient was the most important element of the whole potion, and needed to be added during each stage. By combining it with the restorative powers of mature mandrake juice, and with manticore bile neutralizing the more toxic effect of the plant, the monkshood would dilute all of the energy and magic in a werewolf’s system, leaving it as weak and (hopefully) docile as a pet dog.

 

Gazing down at his work, Severus felt his momentary burst of exhilaration wither. Normally, he would tinker with the experiments he brewed here in secret, casting diagnostic charms or even sneaking in mice he had summoned from the gutters as test subjects. He preferred not to test his own concoctions on himself unless he felt assured that they were safe, or at least non-lethal. Now, however, he didn’t have that luxury. It was all or nothing, and the oblivion that had seemed so inviting mere days ago was looking decidedly less attractive now that he was staring at a cauldron full of it. If he had gotten something wrong – and given that the potion recipe itself was still being developed, there was a fair chance he had – the results were unlikely to be either pretty or quick. Even if he survived, there was no guaranteeing he would be the same mentally or physically. Several of the books he had pored over in the Library had graphically illustrated the potential consequences of imbibing improperly prepared potions, with plenty of lurid detail to ensure that Severus couldn’t miss the message.

 

Severus looked away from the cauldron, his fingers curled into white fists on the desktop. A big part of his hesitation was down to a practical obstacle, one he hadn’t really considered before now; dosage. Nothing in the article gave any hint as to how much of the potion the patient was supposed to take or when; hardly surprising considering the fact that the potion was still being developed, and a matter which Severus himself had glossed over when preparing the ingredients. He had decided to cross that bridge when he came to it – after all, there was no guarantee he would even manage to successfully brew the base potion in the first place. But now here he was, in front of the first cauldron of illicitly-brewed Wolfsbane potion, a result any young potioneer would be massively proud of given the circumstances…and he had no idea what to do with it other than an educated guess that chugging the entire cauldron probably wasn’t the way to go.

 

 _Maybe I should see if I can sneak into the Gryffindor dorms and pour some down Lupin’s throat,_ Severus thought to himself, and it was only partially a joke.  If anyone should be risking his life testing uncertain quantities of an experimental and potentially lethal potion, it was Lupin. Hadn’t he been the one doing all the biting? It would be a fittingly ironic punishment.

 

But Lupin was sleeping soundly on the other side of the castle with all of his delightful Gryffindor friends, and Severus Snape was the one shivering in his nightshirt and robes in the middle of the night, preparing to swallow a beaker full of what was, to all intents and purposes, magically diluted poison.

 

He was going to do it, Snape realized, as he slowly lifted his creation to his lips. He was going to drink it. It didn’t matter how hideous the side effects, how foul the taste…it didn’t even matter if it poisoned him. He couldn’t stand another day like this; he would rather die, and at least be granted the dignity of a footnote in potions history – the first Wolfsbane test subject. And he would never have the chance to infect anyone else. The wheel stopped here.

 

There was nothing left to look forward to, really, he thought woozily as the smoking liquid in the beaker caught the light, shimmering like stained glass. His parents would get over him quickly. The teachers would hardly miss him. He had no future, no prospects, and no friends.

 

 _Lily, you have Lily_ , a thin, desperate voice rattled through his mind. Severus’s hand shivered and stilled. Would Lily cry for him? Would she try to find out what had really happened to him? Would she question Potter and Black? His jaw clenched. Lily had done none of those things. She had other friends – nicer friends, easy-going Gryffindors who flocked to her for support and Charms advice. Friends that she could be proud of. Surely she would cry for him, his Lily…but then she would turn away again, into the arms of the smiling crowd. Perhaps she would forget about him.

 

His gut churned and for a minute Severus felt sure that this time he really would throw up. He had repeated it in his head like a mantra, even before the bite – that Lily didn’t really care, and if she did she would leave eventually…that he could do better, grow past her. Yet it had never worked; one flash of that free, easy smile was enough to melt him, to lift him and fill him with a contentment he never felt anywhere else. And now, when his fists clenched and his throat caught when he saw her, it wasn’t out of hurt or betrayal. He could never hate her. But he could see, in his mind’s eye, like some awful prophecy, her pale skin marred by ropey claw-marks, blood pooling under her shoulders and neck.

 

Severus Snape could just about live if he hurt anyone. He would hate himself, but he could live. He had hurt before – he could hurt again. But he would rather die than face the possibility that he might kill Lily Evans.

Tears pooled in his eyes but did not fall as he tipped his head back and swallowed a bitter mouthful.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Remus Lupin had almost fallen asleep when he heard it. It was a low, rough, rumbling bellow that seemed to vibrate across his skin; something that he felt just as much as he heard. Before he even had time to process the noise, he was out of bed and stuffing his feet into his trainers, as though the sound had sent electricity straight into his legs.

 

Remus peered foggily around the dorm. Peter was in his bed, snoring softly, but Sirius and James were nowhere in sight. They had insisted that they needed to stay up and catch up on their studies, but Remus suspected that what they really wanted was to sneak down to the kitchens without having him and Peter tagging along with them. His suspicions were confirmed when he padded down into the common room only to find it deserted, with no trace of quill, ink or textbook on any of the tables and chairs.

 

Remus sighed, fiddling with the cuff of his nightshirt. The tension between him and Sirius had loosened somewhat – at least, they were talking and joking with each other again, and James had continued brazenly with his policy of pretending that nothing had happened, as it seemed to be working from his point of view. Yet Remus could tell that things were different now. Sirius seemed to be more and more closed off; Remus found that he was being singled out less and less in the conversation, and there were times when Sirius would look past him, rather than at him, when he was talking, and would respond with nothing but a limp “Alright” or “Whatever” to Remus’s comments.

 

It was undeniably better than what had been there before, and Remus was thankful, in the end, that his friends had not abandoned him. However, he felt dimly that there was a distance in their relationship that might never truly heal. How could he trust them fully? How could he trust himself? No matter how much fun they were having, telling jokes in the Great Hall or discussing Quidditch while running from class to class, Remus could never escape the nagging voice that said _if they had never helped you, this would never have happened. How many second chances will Dumbledore give you?_

 

Remus’s thoughts were interrupted by another strangled roar, this one even louder than the first. The sound was hideous, clearly something no human throat could produce…and yet Remus found himself moving toward it, ducking out of the portrait hole and down the stairs towards…towards…

 

…a familiar doorway, set in an unfamiliar wall. Remus stared at it, his heart in his mouth. He knew it was the Room of Requirement. What did he need, most of all, right at this moment?

 

The third roar was louder than ever before, and Remus swore he saw the hinges creak and rattle. The awful sound petered out into a thin, pained moan, as if the strain of causing such a noise had finally taken its toll on the monster behind the doors.

 

Remus reached out with a pale, trembling hand, his mind fearfully blank. Perhaps this wasn’t about what he required. Maybe the Room was bringing him what he deserved.

 

Then the dreadful scraping howl started up again, and Remus knew, deep down, what he would see if he opened the door. He knew he should call the Headmaster. He should call Madam Pomfrey. He knew he should accept the punishment for breaking curfew, he should accept expulsion, and he should follow the rules this one last time.

 

However, Remus also knew that he was a Gryffindor.

 

Light-headed with fear, Remus Lupin pushed the door open.

 

 

The stink hit him before he had even set foot inside the room. It was muggier and more organic than the original chemical stench of the potion, with an acidic trace of vomit, but the underlying bitter tang of monkshood had not changed. At first, everything seemed to be as he had left it when he had stormed out last week. The room was dark, the desks and shelves full of books and ingredients nothing but dim shapes, but Remus couldn’t make out anything else. The sounds had stopped completely now, but that didn’t make Remus feel any safer. Instead, the silence was tense, oppressive, waiting to be broken. The creak of his own feet across the floorboards was enough to set gooseflesh prickling across his forearms.

 

“Hello?” Remus called out, unable to ignore the tremor in his voice as his voice echoed in the small space. There was no answer.

 

Remus exhaled shakily, his heart pulsing in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run back to his warm bed and to forget that any of this had ever happened. But his sense of responsibility would not let him rest. Surely he had been brought here for a reason. And if that reason was what he thought it was…

 

A soft, wet snuffling sound slithered its way through the silence. In other contexts, it would have been a perfectly harmless, even charming sound. Now, in the dark, in the silence, in a strange, stinking, unfamiliar part of the castle, the sound almost made Remus sick with a senseless terror.

 

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak again, but his throat was dry and all that came out was a quavering croak. There was a distant grunt, and then the wet snorting, gagging sounds began again, louder now, as though the unseen creature had caught his scent and was getting nearer, nearer, _nearer_ -

 

Something audibly shifted in the deep black depths of the room, and Remus felt a huff of hot breath against his cheeks.

_This is it_ , he thought to himself, strangely calm as he opened his eyes, convinced he was about to die.

 

It took a while for his eyes to readjust in the dim light, and even then he needed to squint to make out the hulking figure in front of him. It was hunched over, heaving and trembling, and yet it still loomed above him. As Remus inched closer - his heart beating harder and harder with every passing second - more details swum into focus. A pair of yellow eyes, hooded and tired-looking, but undeniably sentient. A blunt, mottled snout. A string of spittle dangling from a slack, fang-lined jaw. A mane of familiar black hair, now extending across the expanse of bare chest and back, though still noticeably greasy.

 

Remus had never seen a werewolf in the flesh except for Greyback, and in that case he had been so young and frightened that all he could remember was a sudden flash of dark fur, teeth and burning eyes before he had been flung across the room. He could, of course, never recall exactly what he himself looked like when he was transformed. There were no mirrors in the Shrieking Shack, and in any case, it wasn’t exactly something he was eager to do. He didn’t need confirmation that he was a monster – he knew that well enough already.

 

Now, standing in front of a fully transformed werewolf, Remus felt a confusing surge of…empathy. It was absurd, alien – and unmistakeable. Even underneath the fur and the disfiguring snout, the creature in front of him was undeniably Severus Snape. He had never imagined that a beast could look so human, yet the hair and the eyes and even the overall shape were upsettingly humanoid.

 

To make matters even worse, Remus could even understand Severus’s expression. The werewolf was in a hideous amount of pain – that much was clear from the noises, from the twitching skin and the tensed muscles, but most of all it was evident from the moisture that glinted in his familiar black eyes. Remus remembered with a shudder the pain and the terror and confusion of the first transformation, and knew from experience that Severus was likely on the verge of a collapse brought about by shock. Remus also knew that he had timed his visit unnervingly well – had he arrived earlier, back when the Slytherin had still been making those awful bellowing sounds, he would have walked in on a werewolf in the throes of transformation, half-mad with pain and fear, and he likely would have been shredded into bloody chunks, in a messy but amusingly ironic fashion.

 

The sight of Severus Snape in this state had been shocking enough to temporarily distract Remus from thoughts of his own condition, but the memories of his own first change were enough to bring the topic back to the forefront of his mind, along with a fresh wave of unexpected sympathy. Nevertheless, a closer look at Severus – who was now sagging at the knees, with a glassy look in his eyes that suggested unconsciousness was imminent – confirmed the distant yet persistent hopes that Remus had been unable to fully quash ever since Severus had first shown him the Wolfsbane article. The threads of drool running from between the wolf’s fangs were tinted an unnatural shade of blue. Severus had finished the potion – and it seemed to be working, if his relatively docile state was any indication. Nevertheless, Remus felt his knees knocking as he reached out for Severus’s arm. If he was wrong about this…

_What’s the worst that could happen?_ He found himself thinking in a manically cheery voice. _I’m already a werewolf anyway, so that’s one less thing to worry about!_

 

Severus Snape, however, seemed to have a different opinion – just as usual. His head swung upwards with a harsh snarl, his lips curled back to reveal a crooked rack of sharp fangs, and Remus staggered backwards, snatching his hand away. He continued to back away, panting and wild-eyed, as Snape loped slowly towards him, his yellow eyes unfocused yet angry, his gnarled paw rising, pulling back to strike…

_“Aauuuooooooo!”_

 

For a second Remus didn’t realize that the howl came out of his own mouth, not Snape’s. In fact, it was Severus’s reaction that clued him in. The werewolf’s expression was priceless, and even dripping in cold sweat and with his heart throbbing in terror, Remus was on the verge of laughing at him. The Snape-wolf looked as if Remus had just started dancing the tarantella in front of him. _Well, this is a pretty good way to go out,_ Remus thought, amusement still mingling with terrified hysteria. _Laughing at a werewolf who just also happens to be Severus Snape. Just like James and Sirius would have done._

 

Severus was still frozen in front of him, like a grotesque statue. And then the raised paw lowered. As Remus blinked in astonishment, the werewolf – still half-clad in the torn rags of what appeared to be a tattered grey nightshirt – sat back on his haunches and howled in response.

 

For a moment Remus’s brain was frozen in bewilderment at the scene. Then a line he remembered reading in some old Defence textbook came loping back into his mind.

_“All attempts by the well-intentioned witch or wizard to communicate with a transformed werewolf are futile, for the beast responds only to the call of its own kind.”_

_Its own kind…._ that was him. He was of a kind with Severus, the reason he was like this. The stark realization was almost enough to make him laugh, but Remus still had just enough of his wits about him to realize that laughing now likely wouldn’t go down well with his new…pack-mate. Even so, the situation was so absurd…here he was, Remus J Lupin, howling and play-acting as though it were full moon, with a prematurely-transformed werewolf who just so happened to be Severus Snape. It was so ludicrous that, as Remus edged closer to Severus – who seemed to have calmed down after his little ‘conversation’ – he found himself wondering if this was all some sort of sick dream. Part of him wanted to believe that explanation; it meant that he could pinch himself awake and laugh at the ridiculous image of him and Severus having a little werewolf pow-wow in the Room of Requirement. Yet Remus knew better. He had always been a vivid dreamer, but this was all too specific to be a dream. Everything from the harsh chemical smell of the potion to the rhythmic heat of the young werewolf’s breath…all of it was real, unpleasantly so. And that meant Remus had a real responsibility. He knew he had been avoiding a lot of that lately. Now, more than ever, he needed to take charge. Severus clearly needed medical attention, regardless of whether the potion had been a success or not. Remus knew there was no excuse this time to keep Dumbledore in the dark out of shame. He knew what needed to be done.

_But that doesn’t make doing it any easier_ , Remus thought to himself miserably. It was one thing to decide to be noble. It was quite another to face the music yourself. Sighing, he turned away from the trembling beast and made for the door.

_“Aaaaaoough…”_

 

The mournful bellow made Remus jolt, certain that his control over Severus had snapped. Turning, he saw that the werewolf was indeed lumbering towards him. But there was no aggression in his movement, and his fangs were not on display. Instead, the werewolf looked…anxious.

 

Realization dawned, and Remus felt his heart stutter. “I’m…I’m just going to get the Headmaster, Severus. He’ll help…he’ll know what to do. You’ll be alright, OK?”

 

Severus merely tilted his head at that. Then he let loose another long, low, howl, and when the echoes died away, sat back to gaze expectantly at Remus.

 

Remus hesitated. But only for a minute. Then he turned fully to Snape and howled in response. In was a sad, flat little sound compared to the deep rumble of Severus’s – it sounded more like a wailing child than an animal. His other friends probably would have laughed at it. But Snape seemed appeased, sinking down onto the ground with his ears flattened to his skull, his thin, hairy shoulders still visibly trembling.

 

Remus swallowed, fighting the bewildering urge to lie down on the floor with Severus and roll around, surely the result of his werewolf side popping up to say hello. He needed to get to Dumbledore as quickly as possible – there might be side effects to this potion that neither of them could predict, things that might be hurting Severus. But at the same time…Severus was clearly scared, in pain and confused. Remus knew exactly how much he was hurting right now. How would he have felt if someone who was like him – someone who could cam him down, maybe offer comfort – turned away from him when he most needed it? Remus felt torn, even though he suspected his werewolf instincts were leading him astray. It was hard not look at the thing heaped in a hairy pile on the floor and feel sympathy, but Remus was a werewolf as well, and werewolves, for all their savagery, were pack animals. It was entirely natural, he assured himself, that he wanted to stay with Severus. It wasn’t just guilt, it was instincts. Totally normal. No other reason for it…

 

The fur of Severus’s back was coarse and oily as Remus ran his hand through it. The only response from Severus was a slight pricking of his ears. As Remus withdrew his hand, he looked down into the Slytherin’s eyes. He wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t be gone long. He wanted to tell him to wait there, and not to hurt himself or try and leave. He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t alone, to let him know, somehow, that someone understood.

 

 

He didn’t say any of this. Instead, he howled softly, briefly, under his breath. Severus shifted at the low sound, the look in his dark, animal eyes inscrutable. He opened his mouth, as if to respond, but all that came out was a rough hacking sound. Then his entire body spasmed, and the werewolf retched, thrown forward as his back arched and his shoulders heaved.

 

Remus didn’t wait for the second performance. He was on his feet and running blindly towards the door, slamming it behind him as the wretched noise grew louder and more intense.

 

The retching sounds seemed to follow him all the way up to the Headmaster’s office, echoing in his ears and mingling with the frantic slap of his trainers against the flagstones. Even as he came to a halt, breathless and dishevelled, in front of the right gargoyle and gasped out the password (“Clove drop!”), Remus’s mind was still hideously full of Severus’s agonized groans.

 

Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen when Remus arrived. By now, he was frantic. Every moment wasted might mean Severus dying. He couldn’t face that – almost murdering a fellow student, only to have him die not even a fortnight later due to Remus’s failings. On the verge of collapse, Remus ran over to the nearest portrait, an elderly witch who was dozing wit her hat over her eyes.

 

“Wake up! Please wake up!”

 

“Gnfh?” The witch started awake with an unladylike snort. “What on-?”

 

“Please, you have to wake Professor Dumbledore, and tell him that Severus Snape is in the Room of Requirement…he’s transformed, but he’s taken something….it might be hurting him…please, he’s collapsing, we have to get to him quickly or he’ll…!”

 

“Good gods, boy, calm down, or you’ll collapse yourself!”

 

“Collapse?” Suddenly, to Remus J. Lupin, Gryffindor, werewolf and extremely tired fifth-year student, it sounded like an excellent course of action. Before the old witch could question him any further, he gave in to the accumulated stress and tiredness of the past week and the upheaval that had been the past hour and sagged to the floor in a dead faint.


End file.
